the island
by The Official Canadian Teabag
Summary: "I love you," said Viktor. "in every way. In any way. In all ways possible." Yuuri closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, and the cluster of spark plugs in his chest ignited. "Don't." [This story is about an eating disorder. Read at your own discretion. Request fic for Shiranai Atsune.] Now available in Spanish! Check bio for link.


the island

* * *

The island was pale and pretty, and so was Yuuri.

He dipped and brushed with slow, decisive strokes. It was a pattern and he yearned for routine, for warm and constrained repetition and because of that he was here, painting an island. He set down the fat brush and opted for the slender one, the one with the ultra-fine tip. He pushed his thick-lensed glasses up his nose and dipped the brush in deep, exotic purple. Wiping off the excess, he willed himself to have a steady hand, and traced the outline of a leafy palm tree. Just one.

He sat back and examined his work.

* * *

The hands on his hips in the kitchen made him nearly swallow his tongue. He reacted to it suddenly, and totally.

Viktor's voice caressed its way into his ear. "Hello, my love. Did I scare you?"

"Yes," Yuuri muttered, but he wasn't upset. "Scared the shit out of me." His cheeks warmed.

Viktor chuckled low in his throat. "Sorry." His fingers splayed across Yuuri's body like he was handling something delicate; for an instant, Yuuri was anxious because what part of him was delicate, exactly? "What are you up to?"

Yuuri shrugged. "Just getting a glass of water." That wasn't, of course, true. The chocolates bought the other day were sitting on the counter beside the bananas; tempting, decadent, and everything he couldn't have but was going to anyways. But then Viktor came along, so now he can't, not anymore. "You bought the weird-tasting bottled water again."

"I think," Viktor said. "you complain too much."

"Pot meet kettle."

That earned him another chuckle. The hands moved up from his hips to his waist and he tried not to squirm, suddenly uncomfortable. "Touché. But nothing is stopping you from buying water yourself, is there? Or do you just like being difficult?"

Yuuri spun around and put his hands on Viktor's shoulders. Of course he wasn't wearing a shirt, he hardly wears anything around the house. He made absolutely zero effort in covering up and Yuuri knew later he'd be complaining about being cold and would want to cuddle. How typical.

"Watch it," said Yuuri softly. His hands ran over smooth skin on top of hard muscle.

Viktor smirked. He stepped in closer and the small of Yuuri's back jutted into the edge of the counter. "Or what?" Yuuri felt every ridge, every line on Viktor's hands as they slipped under and up his shirt. "You'll spank me?"

Yuuri grabbed Viktor's wrists before they could get too far, before his mind could get too far. He removed the hands and pushed them away into a firm chest. "Behave," he whispered, half a warning, half a seduction.

He knew that sent a thrill through Viktor, just like he intended it to. Viktor's eyes flashed with emotion, and he intertwined their fingers. He squeezed. "Make me." He leaned in for a kiss.

Yuuri twisted his head and Viktor's lips landed on his cheek. He let go of the man's hands and slipped through his grip. "Maybe later. I've got a lot to do today." He took his cup of water. The mug was bright blue, matching with Viktor's eyes.

Even as he turned his back on him, Yuuri could see the petulant pout and disappointed slouch of Viktor's shoulders. "Painting again, darling?"

"Yeah." Yuuri drank from his mug.

"Shall I bring dinner lat—"

"No," said Yuuri. "no, it's fine. I ate before you came anyways."

"Oh," Viktor said, a little surprised. "Really? Without me?"

He said that light-heartedly, and yet Yuuri still felt queasy. He nodded.

"What did you have?" asked Viktor.

It was an innocent question but Yuuri's mouth tightened. His shoulders drew up to his ears reflexively and he tightened his grip on the mug. He said nothing.

Viktor waited, for at least three seconds. "Well?"

 _Well?_ Yuuri waited, for at least five seconds. A wad of _nothing, actually_ sat on his tongue, but he knew he couldn't say that. Eventually he laughed, sarcastic. "What, you don't believe me? You don't believe that I ate, Viktor? Okay, okay, I see how it is."

Then Viktor laughed, a little forced, a little scoff. "What? It was just a question, Yuuri. You don't have to get defensive."

"I just think," said Yuuri, the porcelain mug straining his knuckles. "that you should believe me when I say I did something, because you know _very_ well that I wouldn't lie to you, especially not over f—"

"Yuuri," said Viktor. "I didn't say I don't believe you. I just asked _what_ you ate."

The room filled with cotton and stuffed into Yuuri's ears. His fingers were going white so he forced himself to relax. He sighed and smiled and still didn't make himself look at Viktor face-to-face. "Doesn't matter."

Viktor was exasperated. "It does matter, piggy. You know it—"

 _Piggy._ "I'm going." Yuuri hastily gulped down the rest of the water and set the mug on the table. "And I'd prefer it if nobody bothered me for a while." _Piggy._

Without another word, or look, or thought, he left the kitchen.

* * *

145.

He wished that were the number he saw on the scale. Maybe if he closed his eyes and prayed, he'd be reborn into a body he could grow to love, a body worth appreciating. A thin, supple body, a reverse clandestine, flawless, tightly-wound body that dripped with incandescence; rejuvenating light; beauty.

Instead, Yuuri was constrained within an 188.4-pound fleshy prison, coiled and rounded and meaty and _I'm just having one brownie, I promise._ He stared into the mirror, troubled, bothered, angry, embarrassed of the deep red lightning bolts marking the plushness of his tummy, around his navel, on his hips, on his waist around as far as his back, on anywhere that nobody's eyes should ever have to gaze. He set his chin as he pivoted. Fleshy handles sat on his waist, under his scapulas. There was enough fat on his torso that he could grab an inch, or two, or three, or two handfuls.

He was disgusting.

He tore his eyes off the mirror and went on to brush his teeth, avoiding his reflection at all costs. He scrubbed his molars and his tongue and his gums and it hurt. He spat and rinsed and wiped his mouth. And he got on the scale once more.

188.4.

He stepped off the scale and moved back to the sink. He took a comb and swiped at his flat, dull hair. He jerked the comb through knots and frays and split ends were made but he didn't care anymore. He lowered the comb from his bald hairy scalp and pulled out several long, black strands from its coarse tines. He threw them in the trash and set down the comb. He got on the scale again.

188.6.

What? _What?_ Within seconds, terror spiked through his system, violently, suddenly. He gasped for air non-committedly and scrambled off the scale and clutched the shower curtains so hard he thought he ripped them. His heart accelerated into infinity miles per hour, and an invisible hand clamped over his mouth because oh my _GOD_ what did he do to gain that much weight in _minutes_ , what triggered his weight to spike up that almost indiscernible number, _what did he do and how is he going to fix it now?_

It killed him, but he stepped back on the scale after a couple of grotesque, fear-stricken seconds.

188.4.

Yuuri remembered how to breathe and he did.

* * *

"—yeast grows naturally on the skin of grapes," Chris said, his long, elegant fingers tracing the rim of his glass like he was teasing it, or flirting. "That's how people knew they were suitable for making alcohol."

They sat in a restaurant somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Muffled conversation from the other tables snuck into the corners of the evening.

"Really," said Viktor.

"Yes," said Chris as if it were the most obvious thing, and maybe it was. "That's how the Europeans were able to figure out that grapes equal wine."

"How do you think they did it? One day they just mashed a bunch of grapes together, added water, and drank it?"

"Not exactly," said Chris, the intellectual. He twirled his glass between his forefinger and thumb. "The yeast on the skin mixes in with the fleshy part of the grape, and the yeast reacts with the sugars to form ethanol. They most likely mashed grapes and left them to sit for a few days, and when they came back they found out they had created alcohol."

"Ohh," said Viktor. Yuuri lowered his gaze and pushed around the potatoes on his plate. "And they drank it. Didn't think twice."

"Of course. Wouldn't you?"

"Maybe," said Viktor. He cut into his steak and put a piece in his mouth. Yuuri watched.

Chris took a sip of said wine. Every move he made was graceful, with the elegance of a model, or a ballerina, or an athlete, or something Yuuri would never be, not in this universe or the next. "Imagine the very first people who got drunk."

"That must have been interesting," Viktor laughed. "They must have had a ball."

"Stumbling all over the place, feeling dizzy, falling on their asses, flirting with women." Chris smiled and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Their wives were like, 'what the hell is wrong with you? Is my husband going mad?'"

"'Take this man away from me, he'll infect the children!'" Viktor added. "'And the man is just like—' _whaaat,_ what are you talking aboooout, it's all goood…'" Viktor did a very convincing imitation of a drunkard. Both men giggled and Yuuri just smiled to himself.

"And here we have our local expert," said Chris. Yuuri lifted his head and both men had turned their gazes to him. Chris smirked. "Our friend Yuuri seems to know a thing or two about what it's like to be drunk."

Viktor snickered. Yuuri burned with embarrassment. Nonetheless, he smiled politely and nodded.

"I wish I could remember more about that night," Chris said in wonder. "What was it you drank, Yuuri, was it beer? No, what was it—Viktor, do you remember?"

"Was it some sort of wine, Yuuri?" Viktor asked. "Or vodka? Rum, whiskey, ale…"

"Champagne," Yuuri said, very, very quietly. Any quieter and neither man would have heard it.

"Ahh," said both men at the same time.

"Right," said Viktor.

"Lucky it was champagne and not _red_ wine, darling," Chris said to Yuuri. "They've been putting in much more sugar than they used to."

The glass sitting next to Yuuri's right hand was half-empty with red wine. He froze and stared at the fork in his hand until it was one, long, silver blur.

"Really?" said Viktor. "I thought red wine was healthy for you."

"In a sense it is, don't get me wrong. Helps with cholesterol, I think. But there's a lot of sugar, especially from the grapes. Did you know grapes have the highest concentration of natural sugars than any other fruit? Though dates may be even more sugary, now that I think about it."

Heart racing, Yuuri anxiously fiddled with his fork. His steak, hardly touched, leered at him and the potatoes mocked him and the wine laughed at him. _Piggy._

Viktor made a slightly troubled noise. "Oh. That indeed is...something I was not aware of. Say, you don't suppose I should cut back?" He looked at his empty glass and then down at himself, at his stomach, like he had something to be fucking ashamed of. Yuuri clenched the fork until it dug painfully into his palm.

Chris laughed, and Yuuri saw him in his peripheral reach out to put a hand on Viktor's forearm. "Oh, my darling, don't worry about it." He smirked. "Your body can handle much worse than a glass of wine." His deep voice was low and sultry and sexy and all it took was a quick look around the restaurant to know that Yuuri was the fattest person here.

He scooted his chair back and rose. "Excuse me." He tugged on the hem of his button-down and adjusted his pants and moved quickly, as quick as he could through the throng of people to the bathroom.

He hurriedly found an empty stall and locked it and sat on the toilet seat, breathing hard, tears escaping and trickling down his cheeks.

Piggy. _Piggy, piggy, piggy._ The contents of his stomach rose up his esophagus and threatened to spill through the corners of his mouth. He was going to throw up.

He remembered to breathe and he did.

He coughed roughly into a wad of toilet paper, spitting out remnants of what he managed to choke down this evening. He threw it in the toilet and flushed and exited the stall. He approached the sinks.

"...Anna looks stunning tonight…"

"...why didn't you come?..."

"...and he said he was going to renovate next year…"

"...did you watch yesterday's game? It was…"

"...it's not that great. Jordan said he was going to…"

And then it all seemed to change to:

"...look at him…"

"...wow, do you see him?..."

"...take a picture…"

"...dude's not wearing his size…"

"...he's HUGE…"

"...holy shit he's fat..."

"...should stop eating…"

And then there was too much static in the room and he had to leave, right away. He had to get away from this place, these people, these thoughts, before he—well, he had to get away. A stubborn tear escaped his eye and he rubbed it away violently. He refused to acknowledge his horrifying reflection and squeezed past the other men to slip out the door.

He immediately directed his feet to take him out of the restaurant, and they did, without so much another glance back at the table where Chris and Viktor sat, laughing and smiling and eating and flirting and being _happy, happy, happy_ and Yuuri couldn't handle that sort of _bullshit._ He had to get away.

He walked two blocks to the nearest bus stop and got on the first bus that came around. He texted Viktor a _bullshit_ excuse because Viktor didn't need to worry and Viktor couldn't get pissed at him this way, not like this.

 **y:** Not feeling good. Went home. Tell Chris I said bye.

He shut off his phone and the screen went black.

* * *

 _Eating again, Yuuri?_

"I have to." Yuuri took another handful of chips.

 _You look like you've had enough._

"I'm hungry."

 _When are you not? Just stop eating._

The chips crunched in his mouth. "You know I can't do that."

 _Why not? You shouldn't be allowed to eat. Fatties don't deserve food._

Yuuri's chin trembled. "Stop that." The chips just tasted too good. He couldn't help it he couldn't help it he couldn't help it he put another handful in his mouth.

 _Stop. Eating._

"I have to eat. I won't go hungry."

 _You're a hypocrite. You admit you're fat and yet you're doing nothing to lose weight. You're eating CHIPS._

"I'm hungry," Yuuri repeated, his voice just above a whisper. "Just leave me alone."

 _You're trash, Yuuri. Hurry and finish eating, then, you fat PIG._

With shaking fingers, Yuuri continued to eat chips until the freshly-opened bag was nearly three-quarters empty.

 _You know what you have to do._

Yuuri closed his eyes. "Do I have to?"

 _Yes. Now go._

He was scared. "I don't want to."

 _I didn't ask if you wanted to. I'm fucking TELLING you to. This is not up for debate._

He tossed the bag on the counter and stiffly let his feet guide him to the bathroom. He shut the door and for a second he actually wished Viktor was home so he wouldn't be able to do this.

He got on his knees and lifted the toilet lid.

 _Hurry up._

"I know." He stared into the clear, clear water.

 _Do it. Or do you_ want _Viktor to leave you?_

His vision blurred with pathetic, humiliating tears. "No."

 _Good. Go on, then._

The water stared back at him and Yuuri wished he actually were as pale and pretty as his purple palm tree.

 _NOW._

He forced his finger down his throat and spilled the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl. It was disgusting and it hurt, but Yuuri was disgusting and he consistently hurt himself, his mind, his body. Maybe, he thought, this is what he deserves. This is what he gets for destroying his body the way he's done it for twenty-four fucking years.

That, at the very least, Yuuri thought, makes sense.

* * *

He dipped the brush in light green and carefully traced the outline of the leaves. It was looking so, so beautiful. He only painted the outline, and as he sat back to examine it he wondered if he should just leave the leaves hollowed or fill them in with vibrant colour. He adjusted the painting on its easel and studied it with a thoughtful finger on his chin.

He thought it was _too_ bright now. Maybe a bit of darkness would be the cure?

He took the brush and dipped it in deep deep green and carefully painted over its bright counterpart. Now the leaves were dark and Yuuri was happy. He could sell it for at least forty dollars. Or thirty? Fifty.

A knock on the door to his studio, and Yuuri flinched; then Viktor stepped right in.

"Hello, my love," Viktor purred. He produced a porcelain bowl and Yuuri was briefly reminded of his past experiences with porcelain bowls. "How about you take a break and have something yummy?"

Yuuri knew exactly what was in the bowl but he looked anyways. "Ice cream?"

Viktor nodded and his smile was so beautiful (and Yuuri was so jealous of it). "You've been working so hard. I think you deserve a little something sweet. Something as sweet as you."

Yuuri hated when Viktor forced himself to be sickeningly sweet. He used to love it, but now Yuuri just found it annoying. His stomach churned at the sight of the dessert and his stomach screamed at him to take it. It did look really good. Maybe a bowl wouldn't hurt.

 _Know how many calories are in one cup? 110. 110 calories that will only add to the lard around your waist._

"Yuuri?"

 _You have no self-control. You don't know when you're hungry and when you're not so you just keep eating, like the PIG you are. You really are an animal. Worse than an animal. You're revolting._

"Yuuri."

He lifted his head from the ice cream and Viktor gazed down at him with wide, endlessly patient eyes. "Don't you want some?"

Here comes the part that Yuuri hates the most, the most, the _most._ He hates it more than anything and he had to stop looking at Viktor and he had to stop looking at the ice cream and _don't you know how many calories, Yuuri?_ He stiffly swiveled back on his stool and his island gazed back at him; soothing, lucid, and perfect. Perfect. "No, I'm good."

He _felt_ Viktor's confusion from behind. "But...I thought cookies n' cream was your favourite."

It was. It is. "No, Viktor. It's not."

"Well—well—" Viktor grasped for straws. "Strawberry, then? Vanilla? Or I could run to the store and get you pistacchio? I know you love th—"

"Viktor." Yuuri laughed a sad laugh and tried to hide it by clearing his throat. "I don't want anything. But thanks anyways." The cotton squirmed its way into his ears once more.

Viktor didn't move an inch, but his voice grew small. "You don't want any? Not even a little bit? Even just a little bit—" That pissed Yuuri off.

" _No_ , Viktor. I said no," he said angrily. "I don't want anything. Don't make me repeat myself." His vision blurred and _god_ has he always been this pathetic, this weak and _vulnerable?_ But he would not succumb to the sugary treat.

Viktor went silent. A breath later, he stepped forward. "Okay, my darling. I'm sorry if I seemed pushy." He pressed a soft kiss to Yuuri's head and Yuuri almost _sobbed._ "I'll leave you to your work. It is looking beautiful, by the way." With that, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

And Yuuri took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his hot, shaky hands. He sniffled and let a few tears slip and he wiped them away and wiped and wiped and he rubbed his eyes and finally he stopped crying.

And he remembered to breathe, and he did. In and out, and in and out, and in and out.

And in again.

* * *

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

* * *

"This is so expensive," Yurio complained. He pouted and kept staring at the price tag of the sweater he was currently infatuated with. "This much for a fucking _sweater?_ "

It was a hoodie that Yuuri never thought would the teen would be interested in. It was bright, _bright_ yellow—not that awful highlighter yellow but the good kind of yellow; almost orangey. Yuuri personally didn't like it but Yurio probably would be able to pull it off. It _did_ have this pretty neat-looking tiger's head sporting a bowtie on its front, so now Yuuri can see the appeal.

"Why don't you find something you like that's less expensive?" Yuuri asked.

And it was the wrong thing to ask because Yurio whipped his blond head around to send a nasty glare. "It's not that easy, dumbass. All the cheap shit is never as good."

Yuuri smiled. "I bet you could find something you like."

Yurio scowled and crossed his thin arms across his chest. "Well, I don't expect _you_ to understand," he said haughtily. "Old people like you never understand me. You barely have any fashion sense at all."

Yuuri rolled his eyes and tried to hide his grin. "And you do?"

"Duh! What do you think? Nobody can compare to the fashion _knowledge_ that I have. Fucking idiot." The teenager grumbled that last bit under his breath and Yuuri oddly found that seriously cute.

Yuuri caved in. "Tell you what," he proposed. "Take a look in the cheaper sections. See if you find something cool. And if you don't, and if you can honest-to-God tell me that nothing can match the coolness of _this_ sweater—" He pinched one of its sleeves. "—I'll buy it for you."

Yurio's eyes went huge. Yuuri almost laughed. "Really? You'd do that?"

"Sure, kiddo."

Yurio ogled the sweater once more. "Cool," he said softly, his expression just as soft. Then he whipped his head back at Yuuri. "I'll do that but don't you fucking _dare_ call me 'kiddo' again. You're only, like, nine years older than me."

Yuuri smirked. "Oh, really? Whatever happened to me being an old man?"

"Shut up," Yurio responded rather lamely. His cheeks flushed and his expression softened. "I'll be back," he grunted. He took off.

Yuuri lingered in the same spot, casually admiring the jackets, hoodies, trackpants, and t-shirts galore. Sure it was expensive, but it did look cool. 'Cool' by societal standards, at least—Yuuri wouldn't be caught dead wearing this stuff. Not that he could fit in them, anyways.

A man passed by, and Yuuri pretended to go through the nearest rack of joggers.

The man passed and Yuuri watched him. The man passed and his judgmental, wide-eyed stare analyzed every single feature and bit and strand and appendage and dimple and shoelace. Yuuri watched him and a chill went down his spine and the man was looking at him, he was _sure_ of it, he was judging Yuuri so Yuuri judged him back.

The man's eyes matched his blue sweater, and he was wearing a belt on the jeans that sat on his hips and of _course_ he needed a belt because his waist was smaller than his hips and they fell _loosely_ on him, _big_ on him, and drooping jeans were the biggest issue a thin person could ever have and Yuuri was sure of _that_. The blue eyes reminded him a bit too much of Viktor, of Yurio, and the man was walking away, turning his back on Yuuri so he was no longer able to see them, and Viktor was walking away, and Yurio was walking away. Yuuri felt the indecent, immoral urge to grab the man and spit in his face.

His paranoid breathing quickened, and something willed Yuuri to defend himself, because it wasn't like he was a serial killer, or a thief, or a criminal, or a liar, or an idiot; he was just pinned like an insect inside a body he hated and a body that he destroyed but he was good he was good he was a good person and he's talented because he painted a beautiful island and wouldn't you like to see it? I'm a good person, dammit, I'm a _good person,_ I'm just _fat._ I'm a good person so why do you look at me like that, why do you stare at me and judge me when I have done _nothing_ to you? And then the people living in his head would try to pull him away, pull him back and stop him from defending himself, going on about something like _that is not what I meant at all, that is not it, at all._ And Yuuri believed them like he always did and the cycle repeats.

And the man was long gone. And all it took was one look around for Yuuri to know that he was the fattest one there.

"Couldn't find anything," Yurio said beside him, appearing from the air. Yuuri jumped. Yurio raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Yuuri breathed, and flicked his eyes away and pulled the hem of his shirt. "So you still want the sweater?"

Yurio looked at his shoes and his voice was tame. "Yeah."

Yuuri smiled, forced himself to. "Okay. Let's get it, then."

Yurio retrieved the hoodie and glanced it over one more time, the pockets, the hood, the drawstrings, and the tag. "Ah, shit," he said. "It's not my size."

Yuuri shifted and fumbled and swallowed. "I'm sure they have bigger sizes if you ask."

" _No,"_ Yurio said definitively. "It's _too_ big."

The words were almost too familiar and Yuuri's stomach twisted. He took the sweater from the teen and looked at the tag and nothing in the world has ever diminished his self-worth more than this moment. The sweater was a size small, and Yurio was unhappy with that, and an oversized sweater was the only issue a thin person would ever have.

"I _need_ an extra-small," Yurio said. "Otherwise it'll look like a tent on me."

Yuuri almost laughed and he almost burst into tears and the porcelain bowl sounded really tempting, right now. "I think," he said. "that you will look good no matter what you wear. Bigger sweaters are the trend, you know." He smiled and why was he about to cry _again?_ He wanted to punch himself. "I'm actually really jealous that you can pull off literally anything. You could probably pull off wearing a plastic bag."

Yurio seemed to consider this, seemed to mull this over for a couple of moments. He looked at the sweater and Yuuri realized just how tiny Yurio is, from head to toe. And he realized just how much he would _kill_ for a body like that.

"I guess you're right," Yurio said. Then puffed his chest out proudly. "And you fucking _better_ be jealous. You'll never look as good as me."

Yuuri laughed and agreed and Yurio grabbed the sweater and Yuuri's wrist and dragged him to the cash register and Yuuri laughed to himself because even Yurio proved the voices right, that he'd never look that good. He paid for the way too expensive sweater and _I won't go hungry, I won't, I deserve to eat_ and even more of _I am_ ** _nothing._**

* * *

The first time Yuuri realized he had a problem was when he was eight years old.

Maybe it was the fact that within months he had outgrown most of his shirts, his pants, his jackets. All that remained were his hats, scarves, and shoes. He vaguely remembered owning a pair of pants he really liked, and by the end of the first year he'd owned them they were too small, too tight around his tummy and there was barely any room to breathe. His mother, though, as sweet and unconcerned as she was since she was adamant on Yuuri being _a growing boy,_ continued to buy him clothing that lasted a year, then eight months, then six, then three. Yuuri figured that couldn't be normal. Even Takeshi agreed when Yuuko wasn't there to scold him.

Yuuri believed him because nobody proved him wrong.

Later, when he was eleven, his mother had introduced him, his father, and his older sister to a friend of hers, a seedy-looking older woman with tortoiseshell glasses and a sharp tongue. They had breakfast in a nice restaurant and it was nice up until he overheard a hushed conversation between his mother and her friend. He remembers; he always remembers.

"Hiroko," the woman—what was her name? Ah, it doesn't matter—had said snootily. "You have such wonderful children."

"Oh, thank you," his mother had said modestly as she smiled; always smiled.

The woman glanced Yuuri's way for half a second and then she wet her lips. Then she'd leaned in towards his mother and whispered as though Yuuri couldn't listen in. "But I am worried about your son."

His beautiful mother had frowned at that. "Why?"

"I don't mean to disrespect," the old woman had sniffed. "but I know someone whose son lost a lot of weight through this exercise program."

His mother widened her eyes slightly. "What are you implying?"

The woman leaned back slightly. "Hiroko, your son, he's—well, he's a big boy. It's a good idea to start when they're young so it won't be an issue later in life."

"He's a _child_ ," said his mother, her dark eyes flashing in irritation. "Suzume, I won't _deny_ him food. He's just—"

"But you agree he's not the weight a boy his age should be? He should be more like his sister." She may have seemed polite and kind at first, but upon hearing these things Yuuri felt immense contempt for her.

His mother shrugged off the comment and quickly cut into her own food. Her voice had gone soft. "Please, I won't discuss this over a meal."

The old woman physically had shrugged. "I'm only trying to help."

"I know. Thank you."

Yuuri remembers his mother being mildly offended—he himself didn't know what to think—but that was just it; _mildly_ because she _knew_ it was true. She brushed some of her hair behind her ear and carried on with her meal. Yuuri thought the conversation was over.

Until she leaned towards her friend five minutes later to whisper, "I'll think about it."

His food grew tasteless in his mouth. He'd started to push the food on his plate around, to make it look like he'd eaten, and maybe he would have eaten it if no one (that hateful old hag!) was around to watch and judge and _sneer_ and Yuuri remembers the eleven-year-old version of himself wondering _is something wrong with me?_ And maybe there wasn't, because he was just a little kid.

But still the thought remained.

* * *

 ** _Lose ten pounds in 7 days!_ **the bottle screamed. **_Scientifically proven to kill fat cells up to 70 times more quickly and efficiently than diet and exercise!_**

He clicked ADD TO CART and then the button labelled PROCEED TO CHECKOUT.

* * *

He returned to his island. The island was the only thing keeping him focused, keeping him driven. He returned to it everyday, sometimes even hours at a time. It was his refuge.

He sat on the stool and painted. As Yuuri added shades of deep, deep green to the leaves of the palm trees, he couldn't help but think about how he was consuming less and less and less and less. His mind was swamped with calories and grams of sugar and fats and sodium and calories and grams of sugar and fats and sodium and _calories_ and _sugar_ and _(you are) fat_ and _sodium sodium salt salt where salt is water travels where salt is and water travels to where salt is and salt and sugar and calories and_ one day Viktor will leave me and I won't even be surprised.

Yuuri added silver to the lining of the island itself and thought about how he also ate more and more and more and more. His mind was _consistently_ swamped with hunger and empty stomach and food and I won't starve and _oh god I'm eating so much but I can't stop_ and _you know what you have to do, don't you, Yuuri?_ and even more of _one day Viktor will leave me and I won't even be surprised._

He dipped a brush in brown and carefully traced the trunk of the palm tree, and the skin on the back of his forefinger was dry, always dry, rough, damaged, burning, stinging. No matter how many times Yuuri ran it under cold water, it still hurt, and yet he still regularly forced that finger down his throat and drowned it in acid and food whose nutrients he will never absorb.

He let the island sit, waiting for it to dry. And after a while of binging and purging and binging and purging Yuuri got thinner and thinner. He finally had something to be proud about. Viktor would be proud of him. Yurio would be proud of him. His mother would be proud of him. He was proud even though he hated those diet pills and hated throwing up everyday.

His throat hurt. And yet it wasn't enough.

He tilted his head as he examined his work. The multicoloured palm seemed to almost smile back at him, that's how pretty it was mixed in with the rose-gold sand and shimmering water...

He had to be thinner.

Yuuri had never been so determined in his life.

* * *

"Yuuri?" Viktor rapped on the door. "Yuuri, come to bed already."

Yuuri's response was hoarse. "Yeah...yeah. I'm coming. I'll be out in a second." He closed his eyes and listened to the faucet stream, stream, loudly stream liters and gallons and oceans of water. His mouth tasted like Satan. He would never get used to this, not ever, but it was a pattern and he yearned for routine, for warm and constrained repetition and because of that he was here, his head in a porcelain bowl.

He rose to his feet and flushed the toilet. He took his toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth and it hurt. He rinsed his mouth and swallowed and water ripped through his damaged throat, leaving pelts in its wake. The liquid travelled down to his stomach and it was zero calories, minus a few ions here and there. Virtually water was his best friend, for what it provided for him and what it didn't. It was his supper, after all; that was something he could appreciate. (Maybe.)

Viktor knocked on the door again. Yuuri shut off the water, dried his hands. He stepped onto the scale.

171.8. Just thirty or so pounds left to go. Maybe more. (Always more.)

He lingered in the bathroom another minute, and checked back to the scale another two times, until Viktor tapped the door again.

"Yuuri," he said. "you okay? Everything all right?"

Yuuri smiled and his cheeks hurt because he is a faker and a liar. "Yeah, I'm fine." He was so tired. His head hurt. His stomach cried with emptiness but he ignored it. He opened the bathroom door and exited.

Viktor stood there, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe. He smiled, so unconcerning, so unaware of what took place around porcelain bowls, and took Yuuri's hand. He covered his mouth with his free hand as he yawned. "Come now, darling, I've been waiting."

"You don't have to," Yuuri pointed out. He let his fiance lead him to the bedroom, their bedroom. His eyes fell on the closed door to the studio before getting back on track. "You could just go to bed without me."

Viktor closed the door behind them once inside, and gently guided Yuuri onto the bed. "You know I can't do that. What kind of husband would I be to not even be able to stay awake for you?"

"A practical one." Yuuri was tired physically but his brain spurred with thought. "I wouldn't mind or anything, it's not a big deal. Plus, you need sleep more than I do. You're not as young and hip as you used to be." He smirked. Twenty-eight was _far_ from being old. But still he liked to tease Viktor about it.

Said man pouted like a petulant child, and he scooted close, close enough to press the entire length of his body against Yuuri's side. "Ouch, Yuuri. You stabbed me right in the heart. You think it's funny being mean to me?"

Yuuri snorted. "Please. You're mean to me plenty of the time but you don't hear me complaining."

" _When_ am I ever mean to you? I've been nothing but sweet and kind and wonderful…"

"That's what you think." He loved Viktor but he didn't want to talk right now. He had to force himself to go to sleep and, more importantly, he knew he'd probably wake up in three or four hours for a late-night snack. He took his glasses off and placed them on the nightstand, rolling onto his side away from his lover, and said nothing. He closed his eyes.

He felt Viktor shift back towards him. "Yuuri…" Warm arms went around his middle and Yuuri tensed. "Are you going to bed right away?"

Yuuri furrowed his brows but didn't move. "Yeah. Aren't you?"

"I don't know." Viktor sighed, soft and warm near his ear. "I feel like we don't spend much time together anymore...you're always painting, and I'm doing odd jobs…"

"And?"

"And...well. Like I said, we don't spend time anymore."

Yuuri shook his head almost indiscernibly. "Why do you think that is, Viktor?"

Viktor seemed to hesitate. "Well…"

"I have a job. Who's going to pay the bills if nobody works in this house? What do you expect me to do, Viktor? What do you want?"

Viktor was quiet.

"If I don't paint, then we don't get money. We don't get money, we can't afford rent. We can't afford rent, we're homeless. And on top of that, we have to pay for electricity, utilities, water…"

"Food," Viktor added softly.

Yuuri paused at that. "Yeah. That, too. But you get what I mean, don't you?"

"Of course I do, Yuuri, I'm just _saying_. I get it, but it's not fair. Can't you just—I don't know—find a better job? Something that won't keep you shut up in a tiny room all day? Or—"

Yuuri _immediately_ sat up. In seconds he became pissed and it was too fucking late at night to be pissed. "Are you kidding me? You think I'm going to drop my passion just because _you_ think it's unfair? How dare you?"

Viktor's crystal eyes were wide. "It's just a suggestion, Yuuri."

"You make _everything_ about yourself. You're selfish and you don't care and the world just revolves around you, doesn't it, Viktor?" Yuuri snapped.

"That's just not true, Yuuri. I care a lot, and I don't think the world revolves around me."

"Well, it sure feels that way. I really, really don't appreciate the attitude. I can't believe you just said that to me. That is way, _way_ beyond being offensive, that's—that's so, so rude and disrespectful. Honestly." The fact that Viktor was insulting his job, his passion, his life, his _island_ , disgusted and angered Yuuri beyond how words could describe it. He was almost shaking with rage, and—

—was...was he actually _yelling_ at his Viktor? He sobered for a second. He rolled back onto his side facing the shadowy part of the wall and focused on that and said nothing.

Viktor stayed very, very still, like he was even holding his breath, afraid to break the silence. And then guilt set in, and Yuuri wanted him to break it, to rupture it. Disturbing the universe was what he was good at, anyways.

Viktor seemed to hear his thoughts. He cautiously put his arms back around his fiance. Yuuri let him. Another soft sigh in his ear. "I'm sorry," Viktor whispered. "I didn't mean to make you angry. It was a stupid thing to ask, I know. I would be mad, too, if you wanted me to quit a job that I loved doing. Please forgive me, my love."

Except Viktor had no job he loved doing. Half the time he mooched off Yuuri's paycheck. (God. _Stop_ it, Yuuri.) Yuuri took deep breaths and willed himself to relax. He couldn't go off on his own _fiance,_ for God's sake. Viktor did nothing wrong, and Yuuri still loved him; always has and always will. He placed a hand on Viktor's and squeezed it gently. "It's okay. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. It's fine, Viktor, I forgive you."

"Thank you."

They were silent for several long minutes. Yuuri tried his hardest not to feel repulsed on behalf of Viktor for touching him like this, so casual, nonchalant, but it was hard because Yuuri hated himself and why couldn't Viktor hate him, too? To him, it was so easy, _so_ easy to hate himself. Maybe too easy. But the silence was peaceful and Viktor was warm and solid and _here._

"Yuuri?" Viktor whispered. "Are you asleep?"

"No."

"Do you want to...do something?"

"Like what?" At first Yuuri didn't know. Then he did. "Oh."

Viktor's hands began to wander. He drew closer and his nose nuzzled Yuuri's throat. "It's been a while."

"I know," murmured Yuuri. He gulped as Viktor's lips brushed lightly over his skin.

Viktor sighed for the third time, and it sent pleasant tingles down Yuuri's spine. "I've missed you so much…"

Yuuri held his breath. "Me, too." And that was true.

Viktor's hands squeezed his waist. Viktor's lips pressed and etched love into his neck and shoulder and Viktor's fingers traced the curve of his hips and Yuuri shuddered and for once it wasn't in disgust. "Viktor…"

Viktor's hand smoothed over his stomach. It was strong and confident and Yuuri lost all strength in his body and melted into a puddle of jelly. He slowly turned onto his back to look up at the never-ending ceiling. Viktor coaxed his chin gently, using his forefinger and thumb to guide Yuuri's face to his. Their lips pressed together and it unhooked every tensed string in Yuuri's chest. The kiss was slow and gentle at first and then rougher, deeper, almost desperate, and the jelly inside Yuuri turned into lava. Their mouths pressed and molded and sucked and their tongues found each other it was so _good_ Yuuri almost forgot to breathe—

—Viktor's hand crept down over the place between Yuuri's legs. Yuuri's breath caught on a gasp and Viktor drank it up; swallowed it whole. Fingers found the waistband of Yuuri's underwear and slipped inside, and Viktor touched Yuuri and Yuuri trembled and trembled and _trembled_. (He thought to himself, briefly: _I deserve this.)_

"Shh." Viktor kissed his lips, his jaw, his chin, his neck. "It's okay. Just relax." His fingers were hot chocolate and Yuuri already felt pressure building and pearling at the tip. "I'll take care of you."

Yuuri squirmed and latched onto his lover. His breathing came heavy and hushed, and he let Viktor touch him, caress him, kiss him, and it was all so _good._ ( _I deserve this.)_ He let out a husky moan and tilted his head back—

Viktor groaned as he watched Yuuri come apart. " _God._ You're so _beautiful,_ Yuuri."

and then

the world

fell

off the shelf

and

shattered

on the floor.

—everything shut down and unplugged. Everything unhooked and disconnected and Yuuri became self-aware. Too self-aware. He regained consciousness and gasped, but not in pleasure.

 _PIG. YOU FUCKING FAT, FILTHY PIG. WORTHLESS, DISGUSTING PIG._

"No," Yuuri rasped. "No, no, no, no, I'm not, I'm not. Don't fucking call me that because it's not true."

 ** _PIG._**

Viktor's hand slowed down; everything slowed to the speed of honey being tipped out of a jar. "Yuuri?"

 ** _PIG._**

And Yuuri couldn't do this anymore. "Stop, Viktor. No more. I've had enough. I've had fucking enough." He pried Viktor's hands off him, and he scrambled out of bed, pathetic and useless and already there were tears on his face.

 _ **PIG PIG PIG PIG PIG. DIRTY FUCKING PIG.**_

Viktor sat very upright; drew in his breath. "Darling? What's going on? Are you alright?"

Yuuri angrily wiped his face and he couldn't even get ten minutes, ten _fucking_ minutes of happiness with his fiance? Ten fucking minutes? "I can't stay here. I'm sleeping on the couch."

Viktor hurried behind him, pushing away blankets and reaching for the lamp on the table. "Why, Yuuri? Are you mad at me again? Did I do something wrong?"

"I'm sleeping on the couch," Yuuri said loudly, for clarification. He grabbed the doorknob and ripped it open. "Don't follow me."

Viktor already was. "But—"

"Don't fucking follow me," Yuuri all but hollered. "Just stay away from me." _Pig, pig, pig, piggy pig._ He slammed the door on Viktor, shutting off his voice, his beautiful face, shutting away his sweet personality and skinny fucking body.

Viktor said nothing after that—or maybe he did and Yuuri just ignored him, or tuned it out. It was better that way anyways.

Yuuri made his way to the couch and stayed there, exhausted but unable to sleep. Everything hurt but he was doing it for a good cause, for a better body, for a better mind, for a happier Viktor and happier sex life and happier friends and happier parents and happier world and _happy, happy, happy_.

And Yuuri refused to believe otherwise.

* * *

He returned to his island. Like he always did.

* * *

The phone rang. It's Phichit. Yuuri doesn't pick up.

The phone chimed with an incoming text. It's Yurio. Yuuri doesn't pick up.

The island neared completion. It's so close to being everything Yuuri will never be: perfect, and beautiful.

He dipped the brush in vibrant gold and traced the edges of the sandy bit with it, and it was stunning. The island was rich with purples and greens and browns and silvers and golds. It truly was something to be proud of, and Yuuri was.

It was perfect. Almost perfect, almost finished.

And perhaps he shouldn't sell it after all. Perhaps he'll just keep it here in the studio, for him to gaze upon and admire for days to come. Maybe it wasn't meant to be sold because he didn't deserve what it was worth. Yuuri figured that made sense.

Somebody knocked on the door. It was Viktor. It was Yurio. It was Phichit. It was his mother in Japan. They called his name, gently at first, the rapping cautious and unsure. Yuuri ignored it.

The rapping turned into knocking, a little quick, a little desperate. The calling of his name grew louder. Yuuri ignored it.

The knocking turned into POUNDING, and the voices calling his name _SCREAMED_ it at him, and it was so painfully loud and Yuuri reached for his headphones, reached for his phone. He blasted a song, any song, and the pounding vanished.

He smiled because now he could get back to his island and perfect it, and he did. He continued with gold along the edges and he was _thrilled_ with how pretty it was, tinged purple and gold and green. He wished that one day he would be as pretty as his island.

"Almost done," he said out loud to himself, to the studio, to his island. "Almost done."

It was almost done. Celebration was in order.

Later, he gently set down his brushes and covered his paints and turned off his music and avoided every mirror and every reflective piece of glass on his way to the door. His sweaters are getting looser and Yuuri has never felt so accomplished. Everything is going according to plan.

He padded down the hall, hoping to avoid Viktor for at least a bit longer. He snuck into the kitchen and opened the fridge and his mouth watered and watered and _oh my god it feels like years since he's eaten._ The ingredients to the most perfect sandwich sit on the first two shelves: mustard, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, garlic roast beef—

—Yuuri almost lost it, right there and then. And he grabbed the ingredients, all of them, ready to stack them and slather them and stuff them between bread and _engulf_ it and _enjoy_ it and—

He set them on the counter, and the landline rang.

He whipped around towards it. It had been so long since someone called through the landline that Yuuri jumped and wondered _who still uses landline these days, anyways?_ And he stared at the phone, jingling Beethoven's most famous symphony almost cheerfully. He wondered who it could be.

He felt particularly generous. He abandoned his food and went to check the caller ID. It was Phichit, of course it was him, and Yuuri couldn't really ignore him this time.

He answered. "Hello?"

 _"Yuuri! I've been trying to reach you for, like, hours."_

"Oh yeah? Why?" Yuuri glanced at the counter, half-expecting the food to have disappeared.

Phichit scoffed. _"Why do you think, dumbass?"_

It's just Phichit saying those words and yet a sting of pain shot through Yuuri's heart. They sound so familiar. Too familiar. He shuddered and his friend continued. _"So what's up?"_

"What's up with what?"

 _"With you. With life."_

Somehow Yuuri felt defensive. "Nothing. Nothing's up. Why?"

Phichit paused, then laughed. _"I think you misunderstood. What's up, like, how's it going?"_

Oh. "Oh," said Yuuri. "Uh...good."

 _"Good? Just good?"_

No. "Yeah."

Yuuri doesn't say anything else. He leaves it at that and his mind is blank when it's usually filled with words that describe how his day went, what he did, who he say, where he went. And Phichit would listen intently, and yet Yuuri's mind is completely empty.

They sit in silence for a moment too long. Phichit huffed out another laugh, a bit awkward but why? Why? They were never awkward around each other. Never. And Yuuri knew it was his fault. Suddenly this phone call is much too long. _"Well, Yuuri, I just wanted to see if you were well. Viktor said you weren't feeling well, is that true?"_

Fucking Viktor. "Oh, no, I'm fine. I don't know what made Viktor say that because I've been fine."

 _"Oh, okay. I dunno, he sounded pretty worried. You sure you're okay?"_

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, no, I'm good. Everything's good. We're fine. I'm fine." His head stirred with a dull ache. He closed his eyes and his stomach twisted like a bag of bread.

Phichit wasn't satisfied. _"I mean, you can tell me if something's up. You know I'll listen. It's just, you know, it's been awhile since we talked and I know you've been busy with your art and things, and busy with life and whatnot, so_ — _yeah, I mean, I want to see you, you know. So I was wondering if I could come over one of these days; you can take a break from painting, I'll take a break from taking pictures, you and I and Viktor, if you want, and we can see a movie, have dinner, go dancing_ —"

"No." Yuuri shook his head rapidly and clutched the phone between his fingers. "No, I can't do that." He went to the window and peeked through the blinds. He had to finish this conversation and either make his sandwich or ditch the idea before Viktor came home.

 _"What? Okay, coffee, then? Brunch? Dessert? I know you like dessert."_

I know you like dessert. "No."

 _"Alright, smartass, do you have any suggestions, then? I was thinking: rollerblading."_

"No. No, no, I—" Yuuri checked on his food and then went back to the window. The parking spot Viktor always parked in was empty. "I can't do that."

Phichit paused. _"Can't do what?"_

"I can't…can't hang out with you." Yuuri's stomach rumbled and groaned and whimpered.

 _"Why not? Too busy?"_

"No. I just—" Yuuri sat uncomfortably on the couch in the living room. He chewed on his thumb and looked around the room, half-expecting someone to jump out and catch him in the act, like _ha ha! Caught you trying to eat, you fat cunt!_ "Just...can't."

 _"Why the hell not? You don't have time for me anymore?"_ Phichit gasped dramatically. _"Did you find a new best friend? Have I been replaced?"_

Yuuri clenched his hand and _fucking Phichit_ would never understand him. "No."

 _"Then tell me! Why can't you see me, Yuuri?"_

"Because I fucking _can't_ , okay? I don't want to see you," Yuuri spat, _viciously,_ too; his mouth moving on his own.

Phichit was silent, almost. When he spoke he sounded horribly confused. _"What…?"_

"I don't. Want. To fucking. See you. Anymore. Don't call me, don't text me, don't talk to Viktor, and leave us the hell alone. We want nothing to do with you." It wasn't Yuuri talking. He'd never willingly say that, and yet he was. His fingernails dug into his palms so painfully he felt the delicate skin break.

 _"What the fuck, Yuuri? What are you talking about? You're_ —" Phichit's voice grew small. "— _you're not serious, are you?"_

Mustard is 3 calories. Lettuce is 15. Tomato is 18. Pickle is 11. Roast beef is 110 per 100 grams.

 _"Yuuri?"_

3 plus 15 plus 18 plus 11 plus 110 equals…

 _"Are you still there?"_

157 calories in total. Plus the bread which is an extra…

Yuuri crossed the room and checked the window and the car sat in the parking space. "Listen to me, Phichit," he rasped. "You need to stay away from me."

 _"Why? What's going on? Why are you acting like this?"_

Calories calories calories calories salt salt salt sugar sugar sugar FAT they're all looking at you they're staring they're JUDGING you, Yuuri, they _KNOW_ what you've been doing and _NOTHING_ can stop them. "I can't tell you," Yuuri whispered. His breath came in short, quick gasps and his heart beat furiously against his ribcage and his thoughts were so loud he thought he was going to go deaf. "You have to listen to me. Delete my number. Erase anything that could remind you of me. We're not friends anymore."

 _"_ _Wh—"_

"I don't deserve you." Yuuri was on the verge of sobbing. He darted into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and throwing the ingredients back inside. "You deserve better. Just—just find someone else, okay? I'm not worth your time so just don't bother; just stay away and—"

A key slipped into the keyhole and the doorknob jiggled and Yuuri _panicked._ "You're better off," he said quickly, and hung up. He threw the phone on the couch and sped into the bathroom, faster than he'd ever moved before. The front door opened the second he locked the bathroom door.

He pressed his back to the door and sank to the floor. He heard Viktor step inside, take off his shoes, his cost, his bag. He shuffled around the flat and Yuuri sighed in relief and he couldn't relax and—

—he wept and all he knew were calories and calories and sugar and food and salt and calories and fat and sugar and—

—he didn't want to suffer anymore.

* * *

All he wanted was something to feel good about. Something he could control. Something that wouldn't leave him or break up with him or die. Something that would stay consistently within his control, because he's insecure, and he's never not been insecure, and he needed something that would remind him that he has power. He has dominance. He has control.

And for a while, he believed it.

He was convinced it was a diet. Just some diet that he could legitimately follow, a diet he could keep track of and value and persist and remain.

But at some point in time, he had to be honest with himself.

He said he would buy the groceries himself. And he did, and the fruits and Q-tips bounced against his leg in their plastic bag as he walked quickly, away from the people, from real life. He bought cigarettes, but he didn't smoke.

He went into the park and he knew he had to change his tactic otherwise he'd never lose weight. He'd just started to gain again because Viktor kept buying chips and cookies and sweets and it was torture it was fucking _torture_ and Yuuri _had_ to eat them because he had no control no control no control and he needs to regain control, take over the wheel and know when enough is enough. If only it weren't so fucking hard.

He had to take drastic measures.

He sat at the bench facing the pond. Drastic measures, he thought to himself as he pulled out the box of cigarettes, so his body would listen to him again, so he could be in charge and have _control._ Control. Control.

He had (no) control.

 _You've given up._

Yuuri forced his breathing to steady as he took a singular cigarette out of the packet and the lighter from his pocket. "I haven't given up."

 _You're running out of time._

"I know."

 _Your friends have already left you._

He shook his head, and fingered the lowly tube of tobacco. " _I_ left them."

 _No, Yuuri. They left you long ago. They just feel pity, that's why they keep coming back to you._

"Pity." Yuuri looked around the park, double-checking that he was the only one in the area. "That makes sense." Of course it did. Didn't it?

 _Viktor thinks something's wrong with you. He thinks you're sick. He thinks you're a freak. What are you going to tell him next time he asks if you're okay?_

Was he okay? "I'm okay."

 _Good boy._

Drastic measures, he thought. He was at the end of his tether. Drastic measures was the only way he could make this work. He zipped his sweater up to his chin and looked around again, and looked at the lighter in one hand and the cig in the other.

Right? _Right?_

He quivered suddenly with emotion. This couldn't be right. It wasn't right. He dropped his face between his hands and wept softly.

 _Jesus Christ. You're always fucking crying! Be a man! You're so pathetic, grow some fucking balls, you pussy. You fucking fat freak._

"I'm not doing it. I'm scared. You can't make me do this." Yuuri's voice shook and he dropped both items, and they fell to the grass. "I am _not_ doing this to myself."

 _YOU'RE SCARED? YOU SHOULD BE FUCKING SCARED. YOU'RE GOING TO DIE ALONE AND FAT AND IT'LL BE ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT._

"I know it'll be my fault, but I can't do th—"

 _You disgust me. You disgust everyone. You're so fucking weak I hope Viktor leaves you._

No. Yuuri's breathing quickened. "Don't say that."

 _You don't deserve him. You don't deserve the dirt he walks over. You are NOTHING compared to him._

The thought of Viktor leaving him was the single worst possible thing that could ever happen. With the way things are going, that might just come true and Yuuri suddenly felt nothing but absolute, raw _fear._ "No, no, no, d-don't say that. Don't say that, it's not true."

 _He's going to leave you if you don't do it. He'll leave you for someone skinnier and prettier than you. He has lots of options and you fucking know that he doesn't have to stick with you. You're holding him BACK. YOU'RE RUINING HIS FUCKING LIFE. DON'T YOU HAVE CONTROL? AREN'T YOU IN CONTROL?_

"I'm in control," Yuuri cried. His fingers shook as he bent over to retrieve the cigarette and lighter. "I'm in control. I'm in control. I have control."

 _You have no control._

"I have control." He flipped the lighter and struck it until it produced a flame. "I have control."

 _You have none._

He lit the end of the cigarette, and a glowing red amber was left in its wake. "I do. I do. I swear I do."

 ** _You have nothing._**

"I'm in control," Yuuri repeated to himself, eyes wide as he dropped the lighter and let it fall back onto the grass. He clutched the glowing cigarette between his fingers and rolled up the sleeve on his other arm. "I'm in control."

He was in control, so he pressed the red-hot butt of the cigarette into the thinnest part of his forearm.

(But _it_ was controlling _him.)_

* * *

And how should I presume?

* * *

Disturb the universe.

* * *

He picked up a can of black black paint and hurled it at the island. It splattered everywhere.

He stared at the aftermath. The once beautiful trees rich and vibrant were overshadowed by the ugly darkness and it dripped down into the sand and the water and he'd thrown it so hard it made a dent in the canvas and he would never be able to sell it now. He had just wasted his time on this, wasted wasted wasted what a waste because now he's ruined it and now it will never be beautiful and now it will never. Be. Perfect.

He wanted to scream but his throat hurt too much. (Too raw.) He wanted to cry but he had no more tears. (Too dry.) He grabbed his hair and pulled hard and he ripped out strands of hair and the pain was his release and he needed another cigarette scar, he needed ten more, a hundred more, because he had ruined his island and there was no bringing it back.

WHAT

A

FUCKING

WASTE

OF

HIS

TIME.

In his mind he imagined himself wrapping the island in a plastic bag and then kicking the shit out of it. He imagined ripping it to shreds, sending it under the car and desecrating it. Dunking it in gasoline and setting it on fire.

Instead, it sat in the corner of his studio, a bitter reminder.

(Of what he did to himself.)

* * *

One day, his head throbbed with pain as he stepped into the flat.

Taking off his boots, the migraine stretched down to his ears where it collected into one hard ball of mass. Yuuri wasn't sure why he was hurting. Surely he drank enough water throughout the day—he refilled his water bottle about eight times. Vaguely he remembered reading something like this in a magazine: _Fitness,_ maybe? Or was it the one with Dr. Oz's face on the cover? It didn't really matter. Except it did because if he could remember which magazine he read, he might remember what piece of advice the 'doctors' gave.

He hung up his jacket and stepped over the threshold. The television wasn't turned on and the living room was filled with loud silence. His socks barely made a noise as he floated over the smooth wood floor.

"Viktor?" he asked the silence. "I'm home."

The flat gave him no answer. He exhaled, relaxed, and first padded to the bathroom.

The lights came on. He used the toilet. He washed his hands. He dried them off. He put his frigid hands on the sink and he was scared. But something compelled him to look at his reflection, and he lifted his aching head.

For the first time, Yuuri didn't recognize the person standing, staring back at him. This person wasn't him—they were grey when he was pink. They looked exhausted when he was refreshed. Their deep eyes sunk and had bags when his were bright and dreamy. They were pallid and cold and sickly but no, this wasn't Yuuri—it couldn't be. Yuuri was not sick because Yuuri has lost weight and losing weight is a good thing.

" _Men's Health,"_ the reflection said out loud. Yuuri stepped onto the scale.

132.5.

He stepped off the scale and exited the washroom and turned off the light.

The light to the studio was on, and yet not a soul inside. (The island sat in the corner but he didn't acknowledge it.)

"Electrolytes," Yuuri said out loud, and turned off the light. The island disappeared further into darkness. "I'm not getting enough electrolytes."

He moved to the kitchen, heading straight to the refrigerator. 131 calories in one glass of orange juice. One glass will soothe his aching head. He took a glass and filled it with the pulpy liquid. ( _Do you know how many grams of sugar in one serving of fruit juice?_ ) He took a sip. ( _So many! More than soda! They just make you think you're making a healthy choice when you're really not!)_

Yuuri's vision blurred, and Viktor spoke from the doorway, and Yuuri flinched.

"Shit," he exhaled. "You scared the crap out of me."

"Sorry," said Viktor. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the frame. "What are you up to?"

Yuuri frowned. He picked up the carton of orange juice and waved it around, its contents sloshing against the walls of the container.

Viktor watched him and chewed his perfect pink bottom lip. He glanced away for a second, then back to Yuuri. "Is that all you're having?" he asked, and it was the wrong thing to ask.

Yuuri dug his nails into his palm. The juice carton was all but tossed back into the fridge and Yuuri poured the rest of his glass down the drain and started to push his way past his fiancé. He couldn't be around Viktor right now.

"Hold on." And Viktor blocked him, stopped him, and Yuuri seized up. And Viktor said, "We need to talk."

The familiar icy flame of anxiety bubbled inside Yuuri's body, starting in the pit of his stomach and stretching every which way, down his legs to his toes, up his chest to his arms and fingers and into his brain and oh, _God_. He froze in place a foot away from the doorway.

Viktor's intense eyes intimidated him. Suddenly Yuuri wanted to curl in a ball and roll out the window. And then, Viktor produced it from somewhere, nowhere.

"What's this, Yuuri?"

 ** _Lose ten pounds in 7 days!_ **the bottle screamed. **_Scientifically proven to kill fat cells up to 70 times more quickly and efficiently than diet and exercise!_**

The world held its breath. Yuuri's tongue dropped into his intestines. And all of a sudden he has never felt so ashamed, so guilty, so lost, so alone. He never wanted Viktor to find out, much less like this.

"It came in the mail." Viktor's chin was trembling. He shook the bottle and the pills jostled against each other. "Yuuri. Answer me this."

 _No._

"Do you take these?"

Everything imploded inside Yuuri, overwhelmingly.

He closed the remaining distance, and _snatched_ the bottle out of Viktor's hand. "Whatever, Viktor." He pushed past roughly.

"No, not 'whatever'—" Viktor closed his hand around Yuuri's arm. "Listen—"

Yuuri yanked it back and made a beeline for their bedroom. The floorboards creaked under him. "Leave me alone."

"Answer me, Yuuri!" And Viktor was after him, following him, _chasing_ him, trying to keep up but Yuuri was determined to _keep walking, don't look back._ "We have to talk about this! How long have you been using that? Why are you using them?"

Yuuri's brain pounded against the constraints of his skull like a sledgehammer. He reached the bedroom and as soon as he was in he closed the door as quickly as humanly possible.

Viktor's foot caught in the doorway. " _Yuuri,"_ he cried, and his voice sounded absolutely _broken,_ and Yuuri's heart almost broke, too. "Yuuri, _please_ —please talk to me, Yuuri—"

 _No._ Yuuri's vision blurred, this time with tears. He pressed harder on the door but his fiancé isn't backing down. "Go _away,_ Viktor."

"We haven't talked in _weeks_." Viktor's beautiful face was twisted up in pain and his wide eyes begged, _pleaded_. "You don't talk to me like we used to—what's gotten into you? Please, _please_ tell me!"

"Nothing! Leave me the fuck alone!" Yuuri never raised his voice at Viktor like this before. "Go away." It came out so _aggressive._ "Go _away!"_

Viktor sobbed and Yuuri slammed the door on him successfully. He locked it and backed away, retreating until he hit the wall behind him. One hand gripped the bottle and the other clawed at the wall, and he slid, slid, slid until he was sitting on the floor. His hand shook and his brain screamed at him and everything was too loud, _TOO LOUD._

The doorknob jiggled and jiggled and there were pounds on the wood and everything hurt and Yuuri JUST COULDN'T **FEEL.** He choked on a gasp and the tears came, flooding his cheeks and his fingers shook and he dropped the bottle and it clattered on the floor, a deafening sound. Ripping his glasses off, he pressed his palms to his eyes and cried and cried and cried and Viktor cried and _don't you know how many grams of sugar are in one glass of orange juice?_

"Yuuri—" Viktor twisted the doorknob repeatedly, over and over and over and Yuuri wanted to scream at him to _stop, just stop._ "Yuuri, don't shut me out, don't push me away—" Viktor let out a pained sob. "Please, pleasepleasepleaseplease _please_ open the door, please _talk_ to me, Yuuri, I'm _begging_ you—-"

Yuuri shut him out. Shut the pills out. Shut the room out. He was nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

* * *

"Stop," Yuuri whispered.

 _Stop eating altogether, Yuuri. Just stop. You don't deserve it._

Yuuri shook his head. "I do deserve it. I'm a good person," he said. "I have to eat to live. I won't tell you again."

 _You let yourself get to this size._

"I don't—"

 _And it's still not enough. You thought you would be happy if you lost weight._

"No, I'm n—"

 _But you're still unhappy. It's not good enough._

"I—"

 _You have a problem. Something's wrong with you._

Yuuri was horribly, horribly confused. "I...well, yeah—" Of course—

 _But it's not your weight. Your weight was fine from the beginning. The problem is all up here._

Yuuri wanted to scream. "What are you talking about?"

 _Your mind. You have a problem in your head. You've suffered for so long but it was all in your head the whole time, not your stomach or your legs or your arms._

Such a thought was so, so baffling, so weird, so _wrong._ Yuuri couldn't believe it. He _wouldn't_.

 _But you're a burden now. You let it take over. You lost control. It's controlling you, Yuuri._

Yuuri shook his head shook it shook it shook it because no, no, _no._ "No," he breathed. "No. You're wrong."

 _You have two options. Keep starving yourself, or do everyone a favour and slit your wrists._

Yuuri trembled and clutched his head and sat in _pain_. "No. Those are _not_ the only options."

 _Nothing's stopping you. You're not getting anywhere. It's GAME OVER, Yuuri. You lost. Everyone would be so happy without you._

Yuuri felt hot, fresh tears on his face. "I have to be here," he whispered, a stroke of sanity. "Viktor loves me. My family loves me."

 _You think they love you? No, dumbass. They despise you. You're an embarrassment. Admit it, sometimes you want to die. You've thought about it._

Of course he has. Never extensively, though, and never with the hope of going through with it. "I would _never_ —"

 _Everyone would be happier with you taking up space. So why don't you fucking kill yourself? You're worthless. You're NOTHING._

"No!" Yuuri wailed, his voice underlined with nothing but pain.

 _NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING_ ** _NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING_**

He squeezed his head tighter and wished it would pop and his brain would seep out like a grape.

* * *

 _"Yuuri!"_

The scream made Yuuri jump. He blinked back into consciousness, and he turned to the door.

It was open, somehow, and Viktor stood there, frozen in time, pale beautiful face twisted in terror. Tears hung off his jaw before freefalling to the floor. "Yuuri," he rasped. "No. Please. Don't."

Yuuri stared at him.

"Put it down," Viktor whispered.

Yuuri kept staring, confused.

"Put it down…put it down." Viktor swallowed thickly and slowly, slowly approached, like Yuuri was a wounded deer. "Please. You have to. Please."

Yuuri looked at his hand and he was holding a pair of scissors, all opened up with the sharp interior pressed lightly against his wrist. His vision blurred and he was **_NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING._** He tasted saltiness at the corner of his mouth.

" _Please,_ Yuuri." Viktor sounded distraught. His voice was dry as if he'd been crying for a long time, and maybe he had been. "Please— _please_ put the scissors down. Just drop them, don't—don't do anything stupid." Viktor took a wet, quivering breath. "Don't hurt yourself."

Yuuri's heart grew a hairline fracture and he almost obliged, except he didn't. He focused on the rip in Viktor's jeans at his knee. "I—can't."

"You can," breathed Viktor. " _Solnyshko._ My darling. My sweetheart. My sweet, precious Yuuri. You—you don't have to do this."

"But I should." The words fell out of Yuuri's mouth. "Shouldn't I?"

Viktor froze. "Wh—what do you—what do you mean? What are you talking about?"

Yuuri sobbed and it _hurt so fucking much._ He smiled sadly and he let it all out. "It's so funny," he whispered. "It's like a sign from God that I shouldn't be this size. Isn't it?" Viktor didn't reply. "Isn't it?"

Viktor shook his head, his eyes glassy and wobbling in their sockets. "No," he said, then more definitively. " _No,_ Yuuri. What are you even talking about?"

"You _know_ what I'm talking about," Yuuri said sharply. "You know."

"If this is about your weight, you know how I feel about it. You _know_ that I love you, regardless of how much you weigh—"

"It's not about how _you_ feel about it." Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his aching head back against the wall. The pain was so profound he wanted to scream, but he wouldn't dare alarm the neighbours. "It's always," he rasped. " _always_ been what...what _I_ thought about it."

Viktor made a funny, strangled noise. "Yuuri—"

"All my life," Yuuri said. "I thought I was nothing more than a disgusting piece of shit. Because I was overweight. And when you grow up thinking that, even when you, for the _slightest_ moment, _doubt_ all the cruel things you've called yourself—it builds and builds, and, well." He could hardly see Viktor through the moisture in his eyes, but he thought he maintained the sad smile. "Now we're here," he said.

He didn't want to think about how Viktor must feel about this. Every muscle in his body wished Viktor would just whirl around and walk out the door, and leave Yuuri by himself. To suffer by himself. Viktor didn't need to see this. He didn't _deserve_ to see this. Viktor is and always will be too good to stand and watch something as sad and miserable and _pathetic_ as Yuuri suffer—by his own hand, no less.

(Yuuri thought briefly: _I deserve this_.)

"Four months ago," he said, his voice just above a whisper. "I looked at myself in the mirror. I took a real good, hard look at myself." The room seemed to lower dramatically in temperature. His teeth were on the verge of chattering. "Do you know what I thought of myself?"

Then Viktor was shaking his head again, angry, sad, _hurt_ —of course he was, Yuuri figured. Viktor has always been too sweet, too kind, looking out for others way too much. It's a generous thought to tick one person off that list, at least. "I don't want to know," Viktor said. "I don't care what you thought. You—"

"I saw this _body."_ Yuuri couldn't stop the emotion and thoughts and feelings and ideas from bubbling up his throat and out his mouth; an oral geyser. "I saw this horrible, _disgusting_ body. Viktor, I _ruined_ it. I have no conception of self-control; I see food and I lose control. And I've been like this since I was a kid. I have a _problem,_ Viktor. So I—" He was so tempted to drag the blade across his wrist. "—I wanted to fix it. I tried to. I stopped eating," he said. He looked anywhere but at his lover. "I threw it up," he whispered. "All of it. And sometimes I lied to you when I said I ate already. And I thought I was doing a good thing because—I thought you'd love me more if I continued."

"Yuuri," Viktor choked out. "Oh, Yuuri…"

Yuuri shook his head.

"Be reasonable, Yuuri, please...you know I love you just the way you are. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. You know that, don't you? I _love_ you, and everything about you."

"Don't," Yuuri whispered.

"I love you," said Viktor. "in every way. In any way. In all ways possible."

Yuuri closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, and the cluster of spark plugs in his chest ignited. "Don't."

"Look at your hand, Yuuri. Look at your finger," Viktor ordered gently. "Please."

Yuuri shook his head.

"Would you please do it? For me?"

And Yuuri obliged finally, withdrawing from his selfish, stubborn circle, and his wrist spun in its willowy socket so the back of his left hand was revealed. And his gold ring, glittering in the light, twinkled at him.

"I put that there," Viktor breathed. Yuuri's eyes welled up. "And you know why I put it there?"

"Don't," pleaded Yuuri.

"Because I am one hundred percent, absolutely, _definitely_ crazy about you," Viktor said. His chest heaved like he was breathing heavily, excitedly. "I'm—I'm _obsessed_ with you, Yuuri. You are _everything_ to me. I…I never want to lose you." The usually composed Viktor looked on the verge of breaking into hysterics. The sight of his broken face physically hurt Yuuri, more than he's hurt himself in a long while. Did he make Viktor like that? "You're my life," Viktor said. His voice dripped with every emotion Yuuri didn't want him to feel. "My love."

Yuuri didn't breathe.

The voice inside his head never got quieter, but he ignored it, just this once, just this once, maybe. For Viktor. And he felt _everything_ when for the past months he felt _nothing._

But the scissors still laid against his wrist. Yet the appeal was silenced.

"Put them down," Viktor murmured. His eyes were wet and red and Yuuri wanted to kiss the sadness away. "I can't stand things the way they are right now. It hurts when we don't talk, when you don't talk to me."

Yuuri's breath quickened. "That's exactly why I c—"

"I don't care. Because now you know you _can_ talk to me. Because I will never, ever give up on you. Because I want to be there for you, every second, of every minute, of every hour. Of every single day." Viktor took careful steps into the room. "For the rest of my life."

The scissors were mean and cruel and Viktor was soft and happiness. Yuuri's insecurity remained, like it always will. He tried again. "I'm—oh, Viktor, you've got it all wrong," he laughed humourlessly. "You can't possibly want some—someone like _me_ for—forever. I—" He shook his head. "I can't let you do that. I won't let myself hurt you."

"You won't. I know you won't." Everything about Viktor was gentle. It was something to admire. "Because you love me, too."

It was a bold statement. Bold but Yuuri had never been so sure about anything else in his entire life; he loved Viktor more than he loved himself. He did, he did, that was true, if he knew anything at all. "Yeah. I do."

Viktor nodded slowly. "I know." He got closer. "So please do me a favour, sweetheart."

Yuuri was willing to do anything for him.

Viktor inhaled and exhaled slowly. "Put the scissors down, please."

Except that.

Viktor seemed to see the reluctance on his face. "I know you're stronger than this," he whispered. "You're stronger than _it."_

 _It._

"You're smarter than it. You're better than it. It's not _you,_ Yuuri, and you're not _it._ It's hurt you for so long, but you know what? I won't let it, never again. I will help you never, _ever_ let it hurt you again. Never again." Viktor held his breath. "I promise."

Yuuri trembled.

 _I promise._

He trembled and the sky fell down and landed on his shoulders.

It took every single ounce of his strength. He was wrung like a towel, wrung of his pain, his suffering, all the cruel words that were said to him, by him, by others. This time, he won.

Yuuri lowered his arm and closed the scissors, and set them on the ground.

Viktor was on him in a second, wrapping him up into a blanket-like hug, warm and gooey and chocolatey and Yuuri melted and looked up at the ceiling, at the sky, at the stars, and made himself negligible. He wrapped his arms around Viktor and squeezed him close and tried to forget everything, _anything_ bad, everything he's taught himself and everything he believed from day one till now. He squeezed and sobbed and buried his face in Viktor's neck. Viktor was here. He was here, and everything.

Felt.

Right.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri cried. His sobs were loud enough for the neighbours to hear but nothing mattered except for Viktor. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so _so_ sorry Viktor I'm _sorry_ —"

And Viktor's fingers were warm and gentle as he stroked Yuuri's back and when he held Yuuri he wasn't disgusted, he wasn't recoiling, he wasn't judgemental wasn't mean wasn't cruel wasn't angry wasn't violent wasn't aggressive wasn't _hating every fiber of his body_.

"Don't be." Viktor kissed his head, his ear, his cheek, his neck, and Yuuri felt the very top layer of his skin burst into flames because it'd been so long, so _long_ since Viktor touched him like this and it'd been even longer since Yuuri didn't feel the urge to run away, far from civilization. "Don't be."

The world reorganized itself on the shelf.

"I love you," Viktor whispered.

Yuuri's insides rattled. He forced the voice in his head to go on mute and he kept breathing. "I love y-you, t-too," he stammered, his voice shattering. "I love you...s-so, _so_ much…"

Viktor took his face and kissed him, deeply. It was everything Yuuri ever needed and it melded every broken piece of his mind together. "Even if you don't love yourself now," Viktor whispered. "Just know that I love you enough for the both of us."

Yuuri believed him.

"I won't let you fight this on your own."

Yuuri believed him.

"I will always, always be here for you."

Yuuri remembered to breathe and he did, and he believed.

 _You will always be a pig._

Yuuri closed his eyes and held Viktor tighter to his chest.

* * *

A survey made by The National Eating Disorders Association states that an estimate of 20 million women and 10 million men within the United States will have an eating disorder at some point in their life.

If you or somebody you love is suffering from an eating disorder, know that you're not alone. There is always somebody to talk to, somebody who can help.

Recovery is possible. Take care of yourself, and each other.

* * *

 _"...[t]he circumstance of being 'stranded' all alone on an island may refer to being lost or trapped, in which case the island becomes a symbol of alienation or solitude."_


End file.
